


Do you feel what you're not supposed to feel?

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguity, Angst and Feels, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never stays the night. That’s just the nature of things. When he comes over, whenever that happens, he always leaves. And it’s understandable. He doesn't expect him to stay. They have their own lives outside of each other, their own obligations, different priorities. Wives, children, friends, entire worlds the other knows nothing about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you feel what you're not supposed to feel?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> forgive my lack of specifics. i hope you like it. :3
> 
> title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQlOlptCef8).

All they have are Sundays.

Sure, they have every other Monday together, but Mondays hardly count. Monday is a work day. Tuesdays through Fridays see them taking care of the rest of their lives. Saturdays they’ve got to be husbands and fathers. But Sundays…

When they don’t go to watch at arenas, he drops by the house. He doesn’t ring first. He doesn’t have to anymore. He shows up, flashes a cheeky smile, and that’s that.

He never stays the night. That’s just the nature of things. When he comes over, whenever that happens, he always leaves. And it’s understandable. He doesn't expect him to stay. They have their own lives outside of each other, their own obligations, different priorities. Wives, children, friends, entire worlds the other knows nothing about.

They come together, they kiss, and then he leaves, and that’s that until Monday morning, when they greet each other, rattle off their customary barbs, and carry on with the day. It’s a production, everything calculated so that no one will suspect. They’re sure to guard against lingering glances, and every time their hands briefly touch, there’s care to pull away, to play up the rivalry. The banter can get critical, harsh, but what is the alternative? It’s not as if they’re going to come clean about it. Besides that, no one suspects. No one knows a thing.

It’s Sunday afternoon when he comes over. There’s a match to watch, should be an exciting one, and they meet at the front door, friendly but formal in case of any prying eyes. They settle in to watch the game, curtains shut, privacy attained, and they do their work. They take notes, remark on initial impressions, draw comparisons to players and tactics past. Who stood out, who disappointed, the vital statistics of the game. It’s all hashed out, all decided. They might disagree, but that’s alright for their line. They argue over it, and once it’s time for broadcast, they’ll have swapped sides.

And then, once they’ve got enough of the fuss, they fuck on the sofa, just like they always do, and they kiss and hold each other and say things they would never say to other people and make stupid little promises they know they’ll never keep. Phrases like, “I love you”, vows like, “I’ll always love you”, “I’ll never love anyone else but you”, “I can’t live without you”, “I don’t want to live without you”. Foolishness. Lies. The lies of old men who’ve lived too long with broken hearts. The lies of the lonely who’ve found someone to spend the night with.

Sometimes they drink. Not always, only sometimes. The first time, they’d been drunk, but it was more the exhaustion that made their heads all fuzzy and their inhibitions start to fade. Afterwards, they’d laughed and wondered aloud what had taken them so long. Why hadn’t they done that years ago?

“You wanted to do that years ago?”

“Yes. Did you?”

Hesitation, a smile, cheeks reddening. “It crossed my mind once or twice.”

“Knew it.”

They’d grinned, laughed, kissed some more, and as they lie there tangled up in each other, they wondered about why it took them decades to set it all aside, forget it all, and just…

“What would your mates have to say about all this? Me and you?”

“They’d say I’m taking the piss.”

“You are, a bit.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah. But people expect it from me. They don’t expect it from you.”

In the studio, on Mondays, no one bats an eye at them. They show up on time, in separate cars, they come up with the script, they get the clips arranged, and by the time taping is finished, they go off in different directions, the staff none the wiser.

One Sunday (rainy, cold, winter) they bypass the living room and say sod it to the first match and they fuck in the master bedroom. The wife is gone until Tuesday, the kids are out of town visiting family. No one will know. No one will ever know.

So he’s there, sprawled out in his lover’s bed like he rightfully belongs there, a look of lust and defiance on his face as they move together, breathing and grinding and coming. And he thinks, for a moment, that they could be like this always. Or they could have, could have been. Maybe if circumstances hadn’t been what they were, or if they’d been born a decade later. It might’ve been alright, then, if two opposed stars had found a common alignment, if it hadn’t been for everything else.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Sure you have. You’ve been in love before.”

“Not like this, I haven’t. Never like this.”

He wonders, fleetingly, if it can work out for them, if there’s a time and a place where they could have another day, another hour without the risk of losing it all. Not just each other, but. There’s more at stake than that, and they’d be fools not to know it. No shadows can be cast, no doubts in anyone’s minds.

They turn on the game, they don’t pay attention. They draft their analysis, and then, stupidly, they fuck again.

That time, he stays the night.

He gets home before dawn the next morning. It's clear. The sun is shining. He creeps in, holds his wife and tells her he’ll never, ever leave, never leave her, never leave them, and god bless her, she believes. No apologies needed. Nothing. She smiles, stretches, and wishes him a nice day at the studio.

“I love you,” she says, snuggling into her pillows, and it almost breaks his heart to say it back.

Ed praises them after the show. This week’s analysis was spot-on. The producers chime in as well. Another riveting episode in the can. There’s laughter, a sort of joy at having done a good job, at the banter being clever, at the chemistry being at it’s finest. Whoever would have thought? Why hadn't they done this sooner? Everyone is happy.

Gary and Jamie seem almost sad.

They walk with each other to their parked cars. “See you Sunday then?”

“Yeah. I’ll come ‘round.”

“I’ll keep it clear for you, then.”

They stand at their cars, inches apart, backs to one another as they fiddle with key fobs.

“Wish I could see you before then. Wish you’d come by on Saturday.”

“Wish I could, mate.” He takes a breath, opens the car door.

“Wish we could’ve…” He trails off.

“Me too.”

The door slams shut. They share a brief glance through the window. Nothing hurts, there's no broken hearts, just the familiar glow of regret, the sting of lost time, the faded feelings that it could’ve been different. They could’ve wound up together, if it hadn’t been for the past.

But now they can’t. They just can’t. All they have now are Sundays, and Sundays never last.

**Author's Note:**

> come say [hi](http://gutilicious.tumblr.com/)!!!


End file.
